


Hurt/Touch/Hurt

by the_sock_index



Series: Sock's Rant Meme Fills [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, Groping, Implied Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sock_index/pseuds/the_sock_index
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Jim/Whomever you please.  Jim is injured, Character B is helping him, but also using Jim's not-entirely-lucid state to cop a feel every now and again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurt/Touch/Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for prompts on the [sherlock_rant](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com) meme [here](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/6205.html?thread=48838973).

“Look at you.”

Jim jerks his head up from where it’s been hanging, his chin touching the notch between his collarbones. His left eye is swollen shut and he can’t really see properly from his right eye. The bright light shining in his face has a tremendous halo around it and everything else is shrouded in darkness.

He knows that the damage to his face isn’t the worst of his injuries; his right shoulder has been dislocated and he’s broken the bones in his hand in a desperate attempt to escape the handcuffs.

The less said about his knees, the better.

But despite the pain, despite the absolute agony, he tilts his head curiously at the shadow lurking beyond the light. The words haven’t registered, mostly because it’s such a stupid, boring thing to say.

“Let me fix that up for you.”

Jim’s head falls back—he can hardly control it as it hurts to use the muscles in his neck—and he’s in no position to argue.

The shadow flits around the light—frustratingly out of view—and he feels gentle hands with gun calluses brush his shoulders, briefly massage his scalp, before sliding down his chest and to his hips. The hands flit away from the edges of his torso, inward, put more pressure against his groin.

Cup his balls. His body shudders, jerks in its bonds, a reflex. No input from his brain at all.

But the hands don’t linger long, slither between his spread thighs, down to his knees which have been taken apart with precision.

He’d worry about never being able to walk again, but he suspects he won’t live long enough for it to matter much.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” the voice murmurs close, a soft exhale brushing against his sensitive ear.

He shivers. He blinks.

He laughs.

He laughs as the hands move away from his knees, as they grow nails, rake across the delicate flesh on the inside of his thighs.

They leave red welts, probably—he can’t see, but his imagination has always been vivid. They may even dig deep enough to bleed.

What’s a little more blood now?

“Are you going to fix me?” he manages to sneer despite his dry throat.

Teeth bite into his neck, hard but brief, and it’s one more pain in a world of hurt, of aches.

“All in good time,” Doctor Watson murmurs.

Jim laughs and laughs.


End file.
